Mirror Mirror
by Cherielynn
Summary: AU- Mirror Universe. A freak accident forces John to exchange consciousness with his mirror self in an opposite universe. He doesn't realize he's switched at first, and must navigate through an unfamiliar world and an unfamiliar relationship with Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

**_Mirror Universe: John's Point of View:_**

 ****John threw the brick and hit Jameson in the back of the head. The ginger-haired, orphanage director stopped running, staggered and hunched over with his arms covering his head.

"Don't! Don't. I give up, please," he shouted at John who finally caught up with him. He'd picked up another fallen brick in his grip and had every intention of braining the son of a bitch if he even thought about trying to run again.

"Hands behind your back," John growled into the man's ear as he wrenched his arms painfully up behind his back and snapped a pair of cuffs on him. It was after 1:00 am in the morning, and he'd cornered him in an alley between a closed-down pub and a heavily secured warehouse located next to the orphanage.

"You can't treat me this way. I'm bleeding, I can feel it running down my neck. Please, you're a doctor, Watson, help me," the middle-aged director moaned holding out one blood soaked hand. "I think I'm concussed."

"It's what you deserve, bloody tosser," John said. "You ran when Sherlock told you to stay. You've been found out. You think I'm going to go easy on a git like you? You stole from a fucking orphanage, a home for disadvantaged children for Christ's sake. And, if Sherlock hadn't figured it out, you'd still be doing it right now!"

He gave Jameson's bound arms a pull causing him to cry out in pain. He pushed the man's head roughly forward by his hair to look at the wound left by the brick. It had already bled copiously and the man's dress shirt soaked up the blood. Well, John rationalized, head wounds bled. A lot. The abrasion would need stitches to stop the bleeding. None too gently, he pushed the idiot face first into the brick wall so he pull out his shirt from his trousers."

"What are you doing?" Jameson wailed.

"Relax," John said. He reached up under the man's shirt and used his pocketknife to cut a large section of his cotton vest away. He folded it up into a pad and pressed it to the bleeding wound.

Jameson yelped in pain, but John continued pressing. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and fished out his phone. He pressed speed dial and waited for Sherlock to answer. When the detective picked up he said, "I've got him in the alley behind the old Boar's Head Pub."

"Hold him there, John. I need to find the hidden records his accomplice hid or we'll have no proof he's done anything wrong. They're somewhere on the third floor of the children's home. I need more time," Sherlock commanded. "Is he injured?"

"Yeah, he's going to need the A&E," John responded with a weary sigh. "How much longer?"

"Patch him up yourself. We may have to detain him a bit until I find the records," Sherlock said. "Do not let him go, and keep him out of sight of the cameras! See if that pub has a back room you can break into."

"Sherlock, I've already been cited twice for breaking and entering. Third strike and NWI will make me serve time," John said through gritted teeth. "I can't keep getting caught doing illegal things, or I'm going to be the one they cart off to Incarceration."

"Stop whinging, John and do it!" Sherlock said using his full command voice. You didn't used to be such a dead weight. Are you here to help me or hinder me?"

That stung. Usually, the detective took John's well-being and personal safety into consideration before making dangerous demands. But lately, he'd wanted more and more from him.

"Fuck off," John retorted before he could stop himself. "I'm not getting a third strike over this knob," he hissed into the phone. Sherlock might very well punish him later for such insubordination but, he needed to know John was not some disposable sidekick, and he damn sure wouldn't allow himself to be treated as such. Incarceration in a New World prison was no joke. The London Protectors put people away for far less than breaking and entering, and most poor souls who went into one of those prisons never came back out the same.

It chilled his soul to think that Sherlock may be keeping him around only to use him up and someday throw him away. John had begun to feel the vice-grip of doubt about his ability to be of service to Sherlock creeping up on him. But, he couldn't let his thoughts go down this path.

"You are in no danger of getting another strike, John. I assure you. This area has very little Protector coverage, if any. That pub hasn't been in operation for over three years. You're safe enough there. I'll come find you as soon as I get the documents."

John grunted in assent. This section of London had recently fallen into chaos. It was one reason the government put the orphanage here in the first place, cheap accommodations.

"I'm checking out the custodian's closet now. I have hope I'll find something," the detective said.

Sherlock enjoyed a certain privilege his genius allowed him. He got things done in his own way and had quite a bit of leeway in which to do it. He accomplished things no other detective at New World Investigations had ever done since its inception five years ago. So, they overlooked a great many of his "questionable methods" for bringing in criminals.

The country, secretly spearheaded by Sherlock's brother Mycroft, had assembled the NWI to combat the growing unrest spreading across the country due to an upsurge in criminal activity left in the wake of a series of brutal, terrorist bombings. The country's military had barely reigned in the threats, but they'd had to declare a form of Martial Law and give the NWI almost total control of the population. Despite its heavy-handed approach, the country had responded positively. Crime declined, people settled into peaceful pockets of civilization and mostly followed the new rules. It would take time, but both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were making a difference while working toward a better future.

Mycroft had wanted Sherlock to take the position of Prime Protector, but of course, the detective had refused the position. However, they used him off the books every chance they could and paid them both well enough for their work. John knew NWI depended on Sherlock's unique set of skills as much as the detective needed the stimulation of the cases and problems to solve. Only, John thought ruefully, he didn't always get the benefit of operating in the shadow of the great detective. Because, when he got caught doing something against the rules by The Protectors, it stuck. He didn't have a big brother to bail him out or sweep his legal indiscretions under the rug.

John had long ago reconciled himself to the fact that Sherlock lived a charmed existence, but he had agreed to this life when he'd signed on to become Sherlock's crime fighting partner and his submissive.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'll deal with it," John said gruffly and rang off, sighed and grabbed Jameson's arms to propel him forward. Once again, he'd been relegated to Sherlock's shadow.

John had an illegal app on his phone that pinged the location of all the CCTV cameras in London. He used it now to be sure he'd not been tracked by one of them. Sherlock had traded his services to a very talented hacker to obtain this app, and it had come in handy on numerous occasions.

A minute later he received a text from Sherlock:

 **I"ll deal with your outburst tonight, John. SW**

"Shit," John breathed. He thought he might have gotten away with telling Sherlock to fuck off, but his Dom missed nothing.

John sent a text back:

 **I'm sorry for that. I was under stress. JW**

 **I know. That's why I'm going to give you a chance to redeem yourself. You take care of Jameson, and maybe I'll be tempted to use the riding crop instead of the cane. SW**

 **Yes Sir. JW**

John breathed a quick sigh of relief. He had no excuse for his behavior, he knew. Instead of harboring his worries about their relationship, he should be talking about them to Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't know about his insecurities unless he told him. He just didn't know if it was the right thing to do.

The riding crop he could handle and even enjoyed to some extent, but he hated the cane. Because Sherlock's punishments had become more intense in the past few months, John wondered if he might be escalating their frequent scenes to extreme new heights because he'd become bored and needed further stimulation. He hoped not.

Their relationship had started brilliantly just after their first case together. John fell into his role as submissive easily and eagerly. He'd never known anyone who'd claimed him so perfectly physically and emotionally. He'd let Sherlock have complete control over him before he even knew he wanted it. Of course they had sex, often, but John sometimes missed the warmth he'd had with other lovers. Sherlock could be a cold-hearted master at times, but John held out the hope he would eventually thaw and they might even find something softer, and more intimate. It chilled him to think he might be losing the most brilliant, exciting lover he'd ever known because he just couldn't give him what he needed. He just didn't know what that was.

But, unless he wanted to leave the glorious detective, he'd have to put up with the constant demands both in the field and in the bedroom. He had no choice.

Fortunately, no camera tracked the alley and John used his lock picking skills to get into the back room of the pub. He carried a small medical satchel with him, and he had antiseptic wipes, needle, and suture. He'd learned the hard way always to be prepared when he worked with Sherlock. He even had a tube of lidocaine stored at the bottom of the bag that he could use on the wound. This man wouldn't get better treatment even if he'd gone to the A&E. In addition to shoddy care, he'd probably have to wait hours to get seen. The city's general hospitals were always overcrowded and understaffed.

He unlocked the back door using tools he kept in the pocket of his fitted, leather jacket, and pushed his way into the pub's empty stockroom. No alarm sounded. This part of the city was lucky to have electricity and running water in most areas. Because the pub had been shut down, John could rely on the place having no power running through it. He confirmed his suspicions when he saw two thick electrical cables cut in half, and lying dead in the middle of the floor. That also meant no light. He'd have to stich Jameson up by the weak beam of his torch.

Jameson pulled the sticky shirt-pad away from his head and widened his eyes at how much blood had already saturated it. Rivulets of it ran down his arm. "I'm going to faint," he whispered as he staggered forward into the room. John found a broken chair for him to sit on. It wobbled dangerously with one leg shorter than the others, but it was all the room offered. John found a stack of old magazines and shoved them under the broken leg to help stabilize it. He pushed Jameson down and cuffed his wrists to the back of the chair. It would have to do in a pinch.

He held the torch in his teeth as he searched his satchel for his medical supplies. Thank god he'd thought to stuff a pair of latex gloves in his kit.

The task took a half hour as he smoothed the lidocaine into Jameson's wound and carefully stitched the man up. The pain relief of the topical ointment wouldn't last long. He tore off another large patch of the already tattered undershirt and created a makeshift bandage to tie around the director's head. He snapped off the gloves and announced, "You'll live," as he ran his hand through his short, well-trimmed beard.

Jameson hung his head and moaned, "It hurts!"

"Shut it," John whispered. He tried to generate some sympathy for the idiot before him, but if Sherlock found the files, they'd have enough evidence to put this man behind bars in a New World Incarceration facility for at least a decade or more. Most people took a very dim view of stealing from homeless, orphaned children in today's society. It ranked somewhere between pedophilia and robbing from the elderly. Even though the city of London had gone to shit in the last two decades, there were still some things that just weren't on, and this was one of them.

An unprecedented number of government-run orphanages had sprung up in the wake of the terrorist attacks. Numerous mothers and fathers had succumbed to the attacks leaving the city of London burdened with bringing up thousands of orphaned children. Unfortunately, men like Jameson used this horrific situation to take advantage and line his own pockets.

Before Mycroft's New World Investigations had stepped in, the only thing people cared about was protecting themselves at all costs. After the new controls had been put in place, the city struggled to find its feet again.

John finished his ministrations on his prisoner and took a moment to look around the room. He paced around for another couple of hours waiting to hear back from Sherlock. He grew tired of standing. There was nothing for him to sit on so he rested against one dirty wall. He wriggled around trying to find a comfortable spot and felt a leaver behind his back move. In the dark, he'd accidently turned on the pub's circuit breaker panel. The lights overhead flickered slowly to life. Startled, John turned around to flip the switch back down. The place did have juice after all. The last thing he needed was to turn on all the power and attract attention to himself. In the half-light, he saw that the panel seemed to have been pulled apart by what John could only imagine had been vindictive gnomes who hated modern technology. Wires hung haphazardly from twisted breakers. How the thing operated at all was a mystery.

He scrabbled at the largest switch and pulled at it hoping to shut it all down. But that had the opposite effect. The power increased. Music now began playing in the main room of the pub from some long forgotten stereo and John began to panic. While he tried to shut down the traitorous electrical system, he failed to notice the two cables on the floor had fitfully twitched to life. Little arcs of electricity shot out of the ends in a very pretty display of blue fire. John gave up trying to get the befuddled panel to cooperate and decided to go into the main room to see if he could shut down the music and lights manually.

"Stay put or I'll rip those stitches right back out," he snarled at a woozy Jameson, who only looked wild-eyed at him, and nodded his head yes.

John ran across the storeroom floor towards a door that lead into the main room of the pub. He was so intent on stopping the noise that he didn't see the two spitting cables on the floor. His right foot looped under one cable, and his left foot stepped right on the live end of the second one.

A white hot pain stabbed through his leg and he dropped to the floor with a cry. The second cable flew up and touched his other leg completing a deadly, electrical current that flowed through his entire body. He juttered helplessly as an unknown number of volts flowed through him. The shock rippled through his mind and nerves in great undulating waves. He endured the blinding pain until it just stopped. The pain shut off like a switch, and John wondered if he'd died. If asked, he'd only be able to say he felt his spirit had broken apart from his body. A white light ripped open in front of him, and his spiritual self inexplicably rushed forward through it.

As he felt his consciousness push forward, everything he'd heard about the afterlife seemed to be coming true. He felt himself moving through the predictable tunnel toward a bright light. So, John thought, this was it. His life finished up at the age of forty-two in the back room of a broken-down pub. These could be his last conscience moments. But, instead of the eternal darkness he expected from death, the tunnel widened out into a well-lit room with a body lying on the floor. The body looked like his but somehow not his. It too writhed under the influence of electrical current that flowed from a couple of power cords wrapped around the legs. The figure, so like his own, also lay on his back in what looked to be a rictus of pain.

This version of himself had no beard and wore clothes he'd never consider putting on his body, a plaid button up, khaki trousers and an oatmeal jumper. He looked like something out of a children's television show. But his spiritual self didn't seem to care about the extra softness of the face or the terrible clothes of this other John Watson. It simply craved a physical form that called to his disembodied spirit. Here is your home!

The room dimmed as the breaker box shorted out leaving the form on the floor still. As soon as the current ceased, his spirit slammed into this new body like a diver hitting the water from a great height, and he took a great gasping breath.

What the hell had just happened to him? Did he just have an out of body experience?

He opened his eyes. His heart thundered in his chest so hard he thought he might be dying. He'd obviously electrocuted himself on the fucking cables he'd seen earlier, but that didn't explain what he saw at this moment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Regular Universe: Mirror John's Point of View**

Two worried faces peered down at him. One was a man named Lestrade, John knew him as one of the Protectors who worked at the London office of New World Investigations, and the other was a twitchy lad with large protruding eyes and an unclean aura about himself.

"Billy, call for an ambulance," Lestrade said.

"No ambulance," John tried to croak out. They were ungodly expensive and often wouldn't come to this part of London anyway. Unless you were very wealthy, you got yourself to the A&E or died trying.

"I'm okay. Where am I?" he finally managed.

"Just lie back, John," Lestrade said. "You've taken a pretty big hit of current. The pub owner said he'd been having electrical problems for a while now. Seems you ran afoul of some faulty wiring. You stepped right on a live wire, mate."

"What?" John tried again. None of this made any sense at all. Unless he'd lost a big chunk of memory, he should be lying on his back in an abandoned pub with a blubbering orphanage manager handcuffed to a chair. Instead, he seemed to be in a much different room with people he didn't know.

He gaped at his surroundings. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought this was still the back room of the Boar's Head Pub. Only now the back room held neatly stacked shelves filled with bottles of larger, paper napkins and the largest containers of mustard and catsup he'd ever seen. Bright lights shone overhead and delicious smells of frying bangers floated over him.

"Where's Jameson?" he asked. His heart had finally slowed down, and he took a few deep breaths. For being electrocuted, he didn't feel that bad. He had a mild headache and his legs hurt, but otherwise, he felt like he could sit up.

"Help me," John said holding out his arms.

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. "All right, no ambulance. You're the doctor."

He heaved John into a sitting position. To his relief, he saw Jameson sitting in a much nicer version of the chair he'd been handcuffed to before and staring at John. Only now, his hands were twisted together in his lap free from restraints. He had no bandage on his head and didn't seem to be in any pain at all.

"I can't believe you survived that," Jameson said with genuine admiration from his perch in the chair. He had no blood on his clothes and seemed unaffected by any wound.

"Cheers for that," John retorted snarkily. "What's happened to that gash on the back of your head?" John asked struggling to stand up. Lestrade moved over to help him to his feet. He swayed slightly, and the room spun. He made out an apron hanging on a peg near him that cheerfully read Boar's Head Pub. How could that be?

"I want you to get checked out anyway, John," Lestrade said. "I think your brains might be a bit scrambled," he said making a twirling motion with his finger.

"I'm fine!" he bit out at the man. He turned around to get a better look at his surroundings. He now stood in the back room of an actual, functioning pub. He could see a bustling kitchen through a window in the door, and all the way into the main dining room. Where there had been only the eerie silence of a dead bar, now noisy customers crowded around ordering drinks, while waitresses carried plates of food on their arms. The Boar's Head Pub had miraculously come back to life in the time it had taken John to suffer a brief electrocution on the floor in the back room. Impossible. They must have moved him while he lay unconscious. But why?

Before he could assess any more of his strange circumstances, Sherlock himself came bursting in through the back door with a whirl of a very attractively tailored, long, black overcoat. John had never seen him wear it before, but he certainly cut quite a figure in it. John wondered if he'd donned it as part of a disguise. He also wondered what had happened to the pea-colored trench coat the detective normally wore.

"What's the matter with your phone, John?" Sherlock asked. "I've texted you three times for an update, and you haven't responded."

"He's been on the floor trying to deal with a bolt of current running through his system, Sherlock," Lestrade admonished. "Give him a moment to recover."

Sherlock took in the room in a glance. He saw the open circuit breaker box and the makeshift repair job the owner had done leaving a live wire to trail down the wall to the floor.

"John accidently stepped on that," Lestrade pointed at the open wire still sending out blue sparks. And caught himself quite a jolt. "It knocked him to the floor…"

The detective turned to look at him, and John could see panic in his eyes as he moved over toward him. "Are you all right?" he asked placing both of his large hands on John's shoulders as he looked him over thoroughly. John didn't know if he were more confused by the odd questions, or by the actual softness he saw in his Dom's eyes. There was genuine concern written all over Sherlock's face. John felt it might be worth getting injured more often if it meant Sherlock would look at him like he was the most important thing in the world to him.

"Yeah, I'm fine," John said, but I'm experiencing some odd effects from the electricity. It might have affected my memory." It was the only explanation he could think of to account for why he couldn't remember how he'd arrived in this place with these people dressed in clothes he could not remember putting on.

"I caught Jameson in the alley and brought him in…here," he said trying to reconcile his memory with his current situation. Perhaps his brains really had been scrambled and what he thought was an abandoned pub was actually this place. He wasn't sure what kind of mental damage that much voltage could cause him, but it had to be why nothing made any sense right now. He'd just cling to what he knew and let the rest work itself out.

"Sherlock, did you find the files?" John asked running a hand across his chin. It struck him he couldn't feel his beard, and it unnerved him. Did electrical current cause hair loss? He did a quick check of the hair on his head and found it all still there.

"What files?" Sherlock questioned. We've caught Jameson trying to leave the country and we're holding him here for the time being, but unless I can find evidence he's been embezzling, we'll have to let him go."

"You didn't find anything, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked with a frown. "You promised me you'd have evidence."

"You do," John insisted. "On the third floor. His accomplice hid files that recorded everything they've been up to."

"Accomplice?" Sherlock asked. He stopped moving, and his eyes got that glazed over look John knew from countless other cases. He was putting puzzle pieces together, and he let out an "Ah ha!" He grasped John by the shoulders again and smiled beatifically at him. "You are a beacon of light, John," he said turned back to Jameson's chair.

"Tell me, Mr. Jameson, you seem quite close the Rhonda Jones, one of the custodians."

Jameson swallowed nervously but remained silent.

"Where would she hide incriminating files," Sherlock wondered out loud ignoring everyone in the room as he usually did when he went into thinking mode.

"Third floor," John said. "You were looking for them on the third floor."

"Was I?" Sherlock said looking at John strangely. "I had thought they might be there, but I found nothing in the offices…Ah," he said interrupting himself. "The cleaning closet. I did a quick search of it, but I didn't open the boxes of cleaning supplies. Billy," he said addressing the unkempt man who'd remained standing quietly in the corner the entire time. "Please go up to the third floor and search the cleaning closet for a set of files." He handed over a set of lock picking tools and the young man left to carry out his task.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said warningly. "We need a warrant."

"Not if we found the files on Jameson's person, you don't," Sherlock said pointedly looking down at the floor.

Lestrade snapped his mouth closed and rolled his eyes.

"John, I didn't think to search the cleaning closet," Sherlock said. "But once you said accomplice, the pieces just clicked together."

"How did you know he had an accomplice?" Lestrade asked John.

John looked from one man to the other and decided he'd just tell the truth. "You told me, Sherlock."

"I most certainly did not," Sherlock said and frowned.

John couldn't fathom why Sherlock would lie about this. But, the detective always had his reasons for doing anything, and there could be something else here he'd missed in his current state, so he just let the whole thing drop.

Sherlock turned to Jameson and said, "You and Ms. Jones worked together to divert money from the Children's home to an offshore bank account. Fundraisers, government funds, and donations all diverted to you and your lover," Sherlock said through clenched teeth as he pressed his face right into Jameson's. "You stole from children who needed it the most. You disgust me."

John thought he would reach out and take Jameson's lapels and shake the man. He'd done worse to other culprits he'd caught. But, in an unprecedented show of self-control, his Dom stepped away from the man and stood up.

Out in the main room, the pub manager made the last call, and John heard the sounds of clinking glasses and cleaning up. So far, no one had come back to the store room disturb them.

Twenty-five minutes later, Billy came back and handed Sherlock a thick folder. The files. Lestrade flipped through ledgers that offered damning evidence against both Jameson and his accomplice. Case solved, John thought with relief. Now, NWI could prosecute, and justice would be served.

Sherlock handed the files over to Lestrade who said, "He was carrying these when you found him trying to sneak out the back door of this pub. Right John? "

"Right," John said feeling more out of his depth than ever before.

"Then, New Scotland Yard thanks you both for your help in this matter. If I need anything more, I'll let you know, but I believe I can take it from here."

What the hell was New Scotland Yard? John wondered. But he didn't have much time to ponder anything more because Sherlock said, "Let's get you home," while draping one long arm over his shoulders to guide him out of the room and back into the alley. Early morning had arrived during the time they'd spent in the Boar's Head. Sherlock helped him walk to the sidewalk where John saw an amazing sight on the street. The dark blight that normally cast a pall over this section of London had been lifted. Functioning shops seemed to flourish under bright streetlights. A twenty-four-hour café and bakery already had some customers queuing up for coffee and muffins. No graffiti or garbage littered the streets, and the quiet, early morning traffic buzzed by without a hitch. This former war zone now looked like one of the remaining "good" sections of London. John let out a little moan and swayed on his feet. He felt drained. The world swirled; he needed to sit down.

"Hang on. I've called a cab, John," Sherlock said. "It's been waiting for us over here." He waved one long arm, and it pulled up right next to them. John was shocked at how clean and well maintained the taxi looked, but was even more amazed that Sherlock could get one to come to this part of London. He slid into the seat and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder gratefully as he did after most cases. Sherlock huffed in a quick breath of surprise when John's head touched him.

"Maybe we could postpone my punishment 'till I feel better, 'kay Sherlock," John mumbled into the strange black coat.

"Why would I punish you, John?" Sherlock asked, and John could hear genuine horror in his voice. It caused him to look up into his Dom's face, and he did see the shocked surprise there. Sherlock's confusion just added to his own sense of disorientation. But, then he smiled because now he knew what was happening. This was often Sherlock's way of showing he cared. He'd remove punishments if he thought John was too injured or too tired to take them.

"Thanks," he said and put his head back on Sherlock's shoulder. He felt the detective wrap a very tentative arm around his shoulders, and he sighed into the half-embrace. Thank God for his Dom. If he closed his eyes, he wouldn't see the clean, bright streets flowing by. He could pretend it all away. At least the solid presence of Sherlock steadied him. They'd be back at Baker St. soon and he could get some sleep, and this would all make sense when he woke up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Mirror Universe: Mirror Sherlock's Point of View**

Sherlock had finally found the files and hurried down the three sets of stairs to the bottom floor of the orphanage. The place stank of urine and harsh cleaning chemicals. The children's dorms were all on the second and third floors while the cafeteria and common rooms resided on the ground floor. He crept past a sleeping attendant without waking her and left through a fire door. The building had served as a boy's school before this section of London had fallen into decay. However, no matter how grim this place was, the orphanage had to be better than living on the streets for these children. He bared his teeth at the thought of Jameson and his mistress, if a dumpy, 45 year-old-cleaning lady could be called a mistress, siphoned off government money from these abandoned kids. If he had a moment alone with the man, he'd see how much physical damage he might do without anyone noticing.

He clutched the files under his trench coat and made his way to the Boar's Head where John would be anxiously awaiting him if he knew his sub. With the case practically solved, he could turn his attentions back to the doctor's act of insubordination. He knew the two of them had strugged lately to find the rhythm they'd once enjoyed at the beginning of this partnership. So Sherlock had tried to fix things by tightening his control. He wasn't sure if it was the right tactic, but he knew he'd never give up on John Watson. The solider had been as true to him as he could have ever wished and he felt an overwhelming affection for the man. However, Sherlock found he didn't just want John's obedience anymore. He wanted…" he shook his head to clear his thoughts. He couldn't say what was wrong between them, nothing should be wrong, yet the dynamic they'd shared for over two years now felt off kilter. Out of sorts.

When he rounded the corner of the alley, he saw a flickering light shining out of the pub's barred windows. What the devil was John thinking turning on lights, and was that music he heard coming from the old pub? Had the doctor gone insane? He hurried to unlock the back door and let himself into the store room. He arrived just in time to see a bandaged Jameson handcuffed to a chair in an awkward crouch over a prostrate John. It looked like he'd dragged himself across the room to either help John or finish him off.

It took him only a second to see the situation. In the flickering light, he could see two electrical cables touching the doctor's legs pushing current into his twitching form. He gave a shout and looked about for anything he could use to push the biting electrical snakes off of him without succumbing to the current himself. He knew he couldn't touch them, or he'd be fried as well. He began to panic and thought about pushing Jameson into the doctor in the hopes of dislodging the cables from his flesh, but, the problem resolved itself when the circuit breaker spat out a sizzling flash and the room went dark again.

John's body stopped convulsing and lie still. Jameson's injured head snapped up, and he cowered away from the detective.

"I didn't do this!" he said. "Dr. Watson accidently leaned against the circuit breaker and turned on the power. He stepped on those…" he pointed his chin at the now dormant cables.

Assured that the current was indeed off, he knelt down by John's side. "Get away," he shouted at Jameson who hastened to return to the corner he'd been in previously and huddled back on his wobbly chair.

Sherlock brushed a hand over John's face pushing back his long fringe. The skin felt cold and clammy. He felt for a pulse and almost sobbed in relief when he felt a strong, thready beat. Unfortunately, his mind palace had no information on what to do for an electrocution victim. He'd have to wait until John told him what do when he woke up.

The room had gone back to darkness and Sherlock found John's torch and turned it on. He shone the light into the doctor's eyes and gently slapped his face to wake him up. "John," he said trying not to panic. "He knew he couldn't count on emergency services coming to this area. "Wake up," he said holding back a sob that threatened to rise in his throat. When had John become so indispensable to him? He valued the doctor to be sure, but right now the thought of losing John to something as stupid as faulty wiring made him want to howl in despair.

"Sher.." John managed to say and opened his eyes. "Light," he said, and one hand came up to bat at the torch Sherlock had trained on his eyes.

"John," he said relief flooding through him. "You idiot! You almost got yourself killed."

"Yeah," the doctor said and smiled weakly. "What happened to this place?" he said sitting up and looking around himself. He drug a hand across his face, and he quickly drew it back startled. "Why have I got a beard? Hang on, why have you got one?"

"John, I think you should lie still a bit longer. You've obviously suffered some ill effects of being shocked. I'm not sure how much you took but this is a 220-volt wire, and that's enough to kill a person."

"I'm all right. I know I got a shock, but I feel okay. Help me stand," John said.

Sherlock didn't think it was a good idea for the doctor to be exerting himself in this manner, but John insisted. So, he gripped one arm and helped to haul him to a standing position. Once up, John swayed alarmingly but managed to stay on his feet.

"What the hell happened to this place and where's Lestrade and Billy?" John asked again. Did you move me to another location?"

"Nobody moved you, Dr. Watson," Jameson said shakily from his chair. "You took a lot of current and went down like a sack. That was about five minutes ago. I'm surprised you're alive frankly."

Sherlock decided he needed to get John home where he could assess how much damage he'd taken. He had the necessary evidence now, and they could haul Jameson into NWI. The nearest precinct was over ten blocks away. They'd need to traverse a very rough area before they got there however and with two injured people, Sherlock didn't know how he'd manage.

"Can you walk, John? We've got to get Jameson to the Portland Street precinct.

"Call Lestrade for a cruiser, Sherlock," he and your friend Billy have got to be around somewhere. He was just here, I don't know where they've gone off to."

"Who?" Sherlock asked concern leaking into his voice. Was John hallucinating? They'd brought no one with them. They always worked alone.

"Just call The Yard and they'll track him down," John said gruffly. "Here, I'll do it. He pulled out his cell phone. Sherlock briefly wondered if the electricity might have killed it, but it lit up as usual. John weighed the thing in his hand and regarded it as if he'd never seen it before. He scrolled through the contacts looking for one he couldn't seem to find.

"You been mucking about with my phone?" he asked the detective.

"No," Sherlock said had the unsettling feeling that John's brain might have been injured. "Perhaps your memory has suffered from the …"

"If you're having me on," John suddenly said growing furious, "Or doing some kind of social experiment on me…"

"Why do you think I'm experimenting on you?" Sherlock asked.

"Are you kidding me? The beard, Jameson's bloody skull, the odd coat you seem to have acquired and my new environment," John sputtered waving his arms around wildly. "Sherlock, I swear I will hurt you this time if you've drugged me or moved me from the Boar's Head as some kind of sick joke. I don't know what you're playing at, but I'm confused as hell. After Baskerville, I'd have thought you'd have learned your lesson. I mean it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his Sub. He had to get this situation in hand. "Because I know what you've just been through, I'll let your tone slide, but be careful, John. I will not tolerate any more aggression like this from you. We will sort this out. In the meantime, I need you to help me get Jameson to the precinct. Do you understand?"

John clapped his mouth shut in surprise. "Do I understand?"

"Yes, or do I need to leave you here to recover? Can you help me?" Sherlock restated. Hurt or not, he was beginning to grow impatient over John's reluctance to comply with his orders. He began to suspect he might have to go full Dom on John this evening and prepared himself to do what was necessary.

"Yes," John said looking at him like a wounded puppy. "I can move, Sherlock. Christ, what's gotten into you tonight?" John asked. "Let me uncuff him from that chair and we'll walk him _ten blocks_ if that's what you want."

They finally got out into the alley, and Sherlock accessed his mind palace for the safest route through this section of town. When they made it out to the street, John turned around and took in the dilapidated, Boar's Head Pub. "What the fuck happened here?" he asked taking in the barred windows, broken glass and ruined sign. This has got to be a different pub."

Sherlock ignored John's strange comment and pushed Jameson forward. The man groaned pathetically. "Get moving," Sherlock grunted out. "Follow me, John. I know a shortcut."

During the journey to the precinct, Sherlock observed John's reaction to his surroundings. He had his hands in the pockets of his coat and his shoulder's hunched. He avoided looking around at the blasted buildings and ruined sidewalks. Only a few brave stores still dared to do business in this section of town. Most of these places were small factories, heavily fortified and protected by high fences, barbed wire, and security. It had become a way of life now, but when John allowed himself to take small glances at it, he looked shell shocked by what he saw.

"Where the hell are we?" he asked. "It's Portland Street, I'm sure but…"

Sherlock hurried them along faster. Just a few more blocks and they'd be in the relative safety of the precinct. John obviously needed medical attention, and he'd see to it the doctor got the best the city could offer.

Upon arrival, Sherlock buzzed the front door. The precinct wasn't open for the day yet, but it could be accessed in an emergency. Finally, a voice said, "State your business!"

Sherlock uttered the required code words, and soon they opened the door to allow them access. They were met by a low ranking Protector, who ushered them into a small room with a table and chairs. "I'll send Lestrade in to speak to you. He's on duty tonight."

"Finally," said John looking hopeful.

Sherlock wondered who this Lestrade was and how his Sub knew the man.

When Protector Lestrade entered the small room, John stood up, smiled and said, "Greg! God, am I glad to see you're all right. Maybe you can tell me what's going on."

"Have we met?" Lestrade asked, confusion clearly showing on his features. "I know both of you by reputation of course, but I don't think we've ever worked together, mate."

John sat back down, "You're in on it too?" he asked weakly, and Sherlock noted how undone he looked. John looked like a man who'd made an unpleasant discovery and didn't want to acknowledge a profound new truth.

"Arrest this man," Sherlock said slapping the files down on the table.


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade and his team took the files from Sherlock and thanked him for his assistance. Sherlock saw John kept stealing furtive glances at Lestrade watching his every move as he, quite professionally, took down the information and processed the arrest. Throughout the proceedings, he never acknowledged that he knew John or Sherlock in any capacity at all other than reputation. He thanked them for their service and ushered them back out to the lobby. "I might have another case for you detective," he said. "I'll contact you with the details in the next day or two."

Sherlock exchanged numbers and then led John out of the precinct. Lestrade had assigned them a car to take them home, and John was infinitely grateful he wouldn't have to walk any further.

During the ride home, he slumped against the window and thought about what had happened after he'd stepped on the electrical cable. He'd had some kind of vivid hallucination about leaving his body, moving through a tunnel and slamming back into himself. Only when he woke up, his body felt odd. Since the pub, he'd run his hands over his belly only to find a clearly defined six pack of the like he hadn't had since his military days. He'd caught a glimpse of his face in the men's toilet at the precinct and marveled again at the beard covering his jaw and upper lip. It looked good on him. Had he lost weight? His face looked much more defined than it had just this morning. Hell, maybe he could do a little research on electric weight loss therapy and hair growth. If he could find the secret of what had happened to him, he could market it and make millions.

But whatever had happened to him had left him drained. His head rested against the window of the car as he tilted his whole body away from his flat mate. Everything about Sherlock suggested he wanted time to think and process the evenings events in his own way, so he gave him some space.

They finally arrived at Baker Street, and John had just enough reserve energy to climb the steps to the flat. He toyed with the idea of making tea but decided not to bother. He hung his jacket on the peg by the door remarking how well it fit him and how much he liked it, and Sherlock hung the odd trench coat next to it right in the spot he usually kept the Belstaff.

"I'm knackered, Sherlock," John said barely able to keep his eyes open. "I'll see you in the morning." He turned and headed up the stairs to his room.

"John," Sherlock's deep rumble stopped his ascent. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To bed," he said and continued climbing. Nothing else Sherlock could say would keep him from face planting into his bed right now. Sherlock moved to the foot of the stairs and watched him climb saying nothing else. He got to his door and pushed it open. Nothing tonight could have prepared him for what he discovered in his usually neat bedroom.

His usually neat double bed was now covered in a black silk bedspread, and his ordinary feather pillows had been replaced with opulent, round bolsters. Each of the four posts of the bed had all manner of restraints attached to them along with long coils of rope looped around each one. His sturdy desk and wardrobe full of clothes had been replaced with a tall wooden cabinet. One door hung open slightly, and John could see an assortment of dildos, but plugs, whips gags and other sex toys he'd never seen before.

John's brain spun, and he gibbered out a small cry of confusion. "What the bloody fuck have you done to my room, Sherlock?" he shouted to the offending items. He needn't have bothered shouting because the detective had followed him up the stairs and now stood quietly in the door. He'd gone still and simply stared at him, observing his every move.

"Is this your idea of a come on? Are you trying to tell me something?" John asked. He'd thought about having sex with his mad genius flat mate so many times in the past, but of course, he'd never acted on his desires. The room was the stuff of his daydreams. He'd wanked off the fantasies of Sherlock tying him up for years. But in the two years he'd been at Baker Street, he'd never imagined that Sherlock would ever want to do something like this with him.

However, faced with the reality of his wildest fantasies, John suddenly grew terrified. Something was dreadfully wrong with his world right now. He'd been hiding his head in the sand ever since leaving that pub, but if nothing else offered proof that he'd fallen through the rabbit hole, this room full of sex toys did. He snapped.

"Get out, Sherlock!" he shouted and pushed the detective across the threshold of the door and into the hallway. "I'm going to bed, and I'll address all this in the morning." He shut and locked the door in Sherlock's face and crawled into his silky bed with his clothes still on. As he pulled the black sheets up around his shoulders, he allowed all of his confusion to wash away, and he dropped off to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock slept longer than usual that morning but was still up at 8:00 am. Last night's case had been disturbing, to say the least. He made himself tea and toast and set up an experiment on the kitchen table. Perhaps if he got back to his normal, post-case routine, he might be able to think about John's bizarre behavior and put it into some perspective.

He'd been meaning to conduct this particular experiment for a while now, and he'd just gotten everything set up when he heard John's feet hit the floor. Now awake, the doctor would want tea. Sherlock started the kettle and got out John's favorite mug.

If he let himself think too much about John's confusing remarks in the cab, he might not be able to hold back the burning questions he had running through his mind about the suggestive nature of the word "punishment."

Why would John think he'd punish him? What, in particular, did John believe he might do as a punishment? The only thing that might come close to "punishing" behavior might be giving John the silent treatment, or using one of his possessions in a destructive experiment. He'd done it before when he'd been miffed at the doctor, but he had no intention of doing anything like that last evening. And, truth be told, the idea of deliberately inflicting pain on John made his stomach hurt.

He thought that some of John's more curious questions such as, "How did that chapel get rebuilt so fast!" and "What happened to my shooting jacket?" might be the result of his exposure to electricity. But he couldn't just brush away how it felt to have John's head on his shoulder. It could have been simple exhaustion, but it felt more as if John leaned into him for comfort. It had been a guileless move on the doctor's part, and Sherlock couldn't forget the pleasurable lurch he'd felt when it happened. He also remembered his instinct to put his arm around his friend and pull him close. His face burned a bit at the memory, and he hoped he hadn't overstepped any boundaries. John wasn't himself last night.

The other oddity happened when John, so tired he could barely walk, tried to go into Sherlock's room instead of his own. Sherlock took his arm and led him upstairs to his room and helped him get his shoes off and crawl under the covers. He'd been asleep before his head hit the pillow.

He needn't have worried about last night's exchange because what happened in the next few minutes drove that thought completely from his mind. John came down the stairs with his head bent almost to his chest. He shuffled along as one who had suffered a personal catastrophe and couldn't even remember how to walk properly. Sherlock stared at him as he dejectedly slumped down the stairs where almost stumbled before he reached the bottom.

Sherlock dropped his beaker on the table and shot across the room to stand at the foot of the stairs. "What is it John?" he asked, a lump of dread in his throat. Had he received a phone call upstairs? Had his sister died? He couldn't imagine what could have prompted the despair he saw in John's eyes as he finally set foot on the floor in front of Sherlock.

The doctor simply folded down to his knees and grasped Sherlock around his backs of his thighs in a fierce hug. He laid his head on Sherlock's belly and let out a quiet sob.

"What is it?" Sherlock said sinking to his knees and putting his hands on John's shoulders. Seeing his dearest friend is so much pain sent Sherlock into a kind of panic he'd never experienced before. "Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John said. "Whatever I've done, please give me another chance."

Regret, sadness, and dejection rolled off the doctor in waves. "You haven't done anything, John. Look at me!" Sherlock said hearing his own desperation reflected back. Whatever was happing right now, he had no handle on it. "Tell me what is wrong!" Sherlock shouted at him.

John's head snapped up at the authoritative tone of Sherlock's plea and he blurted out, "When I woke this morning, I noticed that you'd moved all my clothes back into my room. I saw them all hanging up in that wardrobe. All my things have been returned to my desk. You've taken away all of the restraints, the toys, and my collar. Does this mean you want me out of your bed? Do you want me to move out?"

Sherlock's mind reeled at John's response. His bed? When had John ever been in his bed? Restraints? Toys? COLLARS? His mind spun at the thought of using any of those things on his flat mate.

"Slowly now, John," Sherlock said. "Stand up. You shouldn't be on the floor like this." The sight of John so subjected did something strange to his heart. John should never kneel, to anyone. He straightened himself up and helped John to his feet. The doctor looked so forlorn and confused that Sherlock leaned in and hugged him as gently and tentatively as he'd done last night. But John was having none of his timidity. He once again leaned into the hug and wrapped his arms around Sherlock holding on for dear life. He burrowed his head into Sherlock's neck and just clung to him. There wasn't an ounce of space between their bodies as John pressed himself so tightly Sherlock found it difficult to breathe.

The intimacy of the hug surprised him; but if this is what John needed, he could provide. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around the doctor's back and slid them up and down in the most reassuring way he knew how. John melted into him even further and let out a sigh. "I know things have been off between us lately. I can sense that you don't like the way things are going," John said in a muffled voice at this neck. I'm not doing something right. I know it. But if you want to break it off between us, I don't know if I can survive."

"No. I don't want that," I want you to hug me like this forever, he thought instead. Why would John think he wanted him to move out? What he wanted to say was, I want you to plant soft little kisses along my neck until you reach my mouth. But he stopped these thoughts. His friend was hurting and now was not the time to revisit his fantasies about his flat mate. "I don't want any of those things, John. You should stay right here for as long as you want to."

"Then, why did you do it?" John asked pulling back and searching Sherlock's face.

"I have no idea what you think I've done. But I assure you I do not want to you leave this flat. I would be lost without you, John. I've never told you this, but I've dreaded the day you'd find a girlfriend to marry and move away from here. From me…"

"A girlfriend?" John said sputtering. "I love you, Sherlock. I don't know if I could have made that any clearer to you. I know I dated women before you, but I've never wanted anyone else after I gave myself to you two years ago. As your Sub, I've never been happier or more satisfied than with anyone else in my life. I don't want a woman. I only want you!"

He heard John's words but couldn't apply the meaning to himself. John's mind had been damaged. Sherlock looked at John, deducing him. No guile, no trace of a lie or untruth. John meant every word he said, unconditionally. It stopped his breath a moment as the reality of his words hit him. "My Sub," he murmured. He'd researched the BDSM lifestyle on a few occasions for a case and knew how the technicalities worked in theory. He'd even fantasized about being tied down by John who would kiss and fuck him insensate, but it had never progressed much beyond that. He remembered thinking he'd probably be a Sub in such a relationship, especially if he could be at the mercies of Captain Watson.

"My Dom," John responded reaching up to place one hand on Sherlock's cheek. Before he could stop him, John pulled Sherlock into a kiss. John kissed him as if he'd been doing it forever. He didn't let Sherlock's slack lips or stiffening posture stop him. Sherlock could feel all of John's longing and desires in that one perfect union of their lips. If he were suffering from a delusion, as Sherlock suspected, perhaps it was a desire he'd been suppressing deeply in his subconscious mind. Perhaps this was John's true self? A hope simmered in his chest at the idea.

These thoughts passed swiftly through his mind as John's kisses grew more urgent. He kissed back and hugged the doctor even closer. His hands moved into John's short cropped hair, and he felt a moan rise out of him. He'd dreamed of this over and over but never suspected John would put aside his goals of eventually getting married and having a family for a relationship with him. He might be taking advantage of the situation, but he found he couldn't make himself stop.

The kiss deepened and John pulled his shirt tails from his trousers to gain access to his front. Sherlock felt John's hands, warm and urgent slide up his chest, brush across his nipples, and around to his back. John's lips broke away from his own and then he was kissing up Sherlock's neck just as he'd imagined a moment ago. He used soft little nips with just the perfect amount of suction to wring another moan from him. He could feel his cock thicken in response. Whatever resolve he had not to take advantage now fled from Sherlock's brain as one of John's hands moved to undo the belt of his trousers. My god, he thought, he's going to touch me!

Before the thought could get any further, Sherlock's body acted of its own accord, and he wrenched himself free of John's embrace. His soul cried out in dismay at losing contact with his doctor. "No, go back," it cried. "Kiss him until he stops worrying that you don't want him anymore. Go. Back." But, he held up his hands, pushed John away further instead and said, "Please stop. I need you to stop and tell me what this is about, John."

And John did stop. He froze, head bowed, hands crossed in front of his crotch and waited. He said quietly, "Yes, Sir."

John's demeanor smoothed out, he took a deep breath in and out and steadied himself. It was as if he'd been trained to have this exact reaction. Sherlock knew about safewords, and John had reacted exactly as someone well trained in BDSM would do to a safeword. He'd stopped.

The signs were there; John had been programmed to act in a sexually submissive manner to him. If he read John correctly, this was not new but a deeply ingrained and well-practiced behavior.

Sherlock reached up and stroked his bottom lip. John had kissed him there. He'd kissed him passionately. Sherlock could read people, and he could read the confusion, hurt, and longing on the doctor's face as easily as he could read a sign.

"From the beginning!" he commanded sternly. If John's delusion of being a sub held true, then Sherlock simply had to assert control. "Let's sit down and I want you to tell me what is wrong. Leave nothing out."

Sherlock moved to sit in his chair and motioned for John to take his. John obeyed, and the act of placing themselves in this comforting environment calmed them both down.

"It began last night…" John said. "After I woke up from the jolt."

Sherlock listened as John recounted his amazement at seeing Lestrade and Billy, the lack of Jameson's wound and Sherlock's new coat. He explained how the world, his world, did not match the one he currently found himself in, and most importantly, he explained his relationship with Sherlock. Of John's entire, fantastical tale, Sherlock had the hardest time believing the last part to be true. John did not love him in that way. The facts as he knew them did not include a John Watson who had a sexual relationship with Sherlock Holmes. And so, Sherlock had learned to live with his repressed desires until they became absolute truths.

But the more John revealed about his version of the time they'd spent together, the more doubt crossed his mind. He spun a tale of their first kiss, their first shag and their eventual development of a Sub/Dom relationship. It a was mind-bogglingly complex fantasy, and Sherlock longed for it to be true.

"I know there is something wrong with me," John said placing one of Sherlock's hands in both of his. "Help me," he said, and it broke Sherlock's heart to hear the plea in his voice.

"Of course, I'll help you," Sherlock said. "We'll figure this out."


	6. Chapter 6

John awoke the next morning feeling much better. The first thing he saw after opening his eyes, was the new bedding he'd been lying on, luxurious, decadent, soft. The restraints still dangled from the bedposts in a lurid and suggestive manner while realistic dildos, butt-plugs, riding crops, gags, and other items peeked cheekily from the cabinet. One shelf in the corner held a music player and speakers. This place looked so ready for action, John thought he might see a leather-clad Sherlock come striding in in a zip up mask and thigh-high boots. That thought sent a jolt through him, not unlike the one he'd received last night. No amount of pretending, desiring or wanting his flat mate had prepared him for the reality of the scenario he had woken up to this morning.

This was his room for Christ's sake, he thought angrily. Sherlock had no right to impose whatever he wanted on him. Even if this might be the detective's way of letting John know his desires, there had to be a better way to go about it.

John steeled himself to face Sherlock. But first, he'd worried about the lingering effects of electrocution. He checked for tingling or numbness in his extremities, headache; he listened to his steady heartbeat with his stethoscope, and he looked his legs over for burns. The points of contact were red and sore, but remarkably, he'd sustained very little damage. Perhaps the current hadn't been that strong or had pulsed on and off until the breaker had exploded. Thank God it had, he thought, or he'd be dead. What a stupid way to go, he mused.

His body, on the other hand, gave him pause. He was fit! The well-kept beard flattered his face, and he looked edgier in the clothes he currently wore. Somewhere along the way, he'd upgraded his image to badass. He grinned at his reflection admiringly and thought, well at least there's one silver lining.

He couldn't discount the idea that he must have damaged his mind more that he knew. He might be missing chunks of his memory, or his perception could be skewed abnormally. He couldn't discount that as a possibility, and so, he might want to go slow until he got his bearings again.

He pulled on his shoes, straightened his clothes and went out to face the day.

The kitchen and sitting room stood empty. It looked much like he remembered it. It held no other surprises, no experiments cluttering the table and more importantly, no Sherlock. John didn't know whether or not to be glad or disappointed. Sherlock's door remained shut, a silent recrimination to John's behavior last night perhaps. Thinking back, he shouldn't have pushed him out the door so abruptly. But, he simply hadn't had the energy to deal with it then.

He fussed about, making tea and toast for breakfast. He opened the cupboard and stared at what he found inside. Right in front, he found his old RAMC mug. Sherlock had accidently exploded into in ceramic dust about a month after they been living together. He'd apologized and ordered a duplicate off the internet, but it wasn't quite the same color or shape. This was, however, his old mug; the chip on the rim was in the same place, the crack along the handle along with the glue he'd used to repair it still glistened. It had a few more tea stains on the inside, but this was his mug, beyond a doubt. Impossible. He'd seen it explode right in front of him. He'd wiped off the dust fragments from the front of his jumper, and he'd given Sherlock hell for destroying one of his most treasured mementos from his time spent in the military.

He took it down from the shelf and held it quietly for a few minutes. A magic trick perhaps, he wondered, he wouldn't put it past his flat mate. He didn't doubt that Sherlock had the ability to deceive him like this. But why destroy it, and why bring it back now?

John heard the click of an opening door and Sherlock stepped into the kitchen fully dressed, looking immaculate, his face impassive.

They stared at each other for a full minute before speaking. Sherlock stood alert and assessing. "How are you feeling?" he asked breaking the silence.

"Surprisingly fine," John said. "Some irritation at point of contact, no headache, heart fine," John said rattling off his assessment in his best doctor voice.

"Good," Sherlock said neutrally. "That's good. I've arranged for you to be seen at St. Bart's later today. I want you to go."

"I'm fine, Sherlock. If I feel any further effects…"

"It's not a request, John," Sherlock said and narrowed his eyes. He took a step toward John backing him into the sink. He removed the mug from his fingers and placed it on the counter pressing even further into his personal space.

"Uh, Sherlock. What are you doing?" John squeaked when Sherlock's hands came up and cupped both sides of his face.

"You are going to tell me what happened last night," Sherlock commanded.

"Sherlock, if anyone needs to explain what is going on around here, it's you!" He groped along the counter until he found his mug and brought it back up to eye level. He tried breaking free from Sherlock's hold on his face, but couldn't. He opted instead to wave the long-lost cup around and say, "I watched you blow this up two years ago, into dust. Yet, here it is. How can that be?"

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly at that. John thought it could have been a memory of something. Sherlock suddenly let him go and pushed himself back and away. He drew up to his full height and said, "You are going in for a full scan, today. You obviously have some false memories…"

"I might have scrambled my synapses, but that does not explain my bedroom," he said vehemently. "Where are my clothes?"

"Where they've been for almost two years, John. In our bedroom.

"Our bedroom?" John asked eyebrows creeping into his fringe. "Our? Sherlock, I have the room upstairs, and you've got the one downstairs. We've never shared a room."

"I assure you we do. The room at the top of the stairs is our playroom. You and I both designed it together. You selected the restraints, the toys. I picked the décor, the riding crops and the collar which I presented to you after being together sexually for six months. You accepted it, and you have been my Sub ever since. You don't wear the collar in public, but you do wear it for me here in our flat."

John blinked, then breathed and then decided to sit down at the table. "So I've been your Sub, as in some kind of BDSM thing?"

Sherlock's face showed emotion for the first time that morning. John saw hurt, and anger there now. "We do not have a BDSM thing," Sherlock said through tight lips. "We are in a committed, consensual Sub/Dom relationship with some elements of BDSM."

"I can tell you I have never worn a collar, Sherlock. Ever." John said adamantly. "I would never submit to that kind of relationship no matter how much I wanted…" he said and stopped. If he continued, he'd be treading on new territory here. "I know I wouldn't do that no matter how much I might want to have something with you," he finished and swallowed.

Sherlock took the mug from his hand again and looked carefully at it. "I remember the day you are referring to. I had intended to use this cup for an experiment involving short-range explosives, but I knew you'd miss it, so I selected another. I blew it up instead and showered your favorite trousers in dust for which you angrily shouted at me for a full five minutes." Sherlock moved even closer, pressing him up against the counter. Their chests touched, their lips only inches apart. Sherlock drew his mouth right up next to John's ear and said low and deep, "After your outburst, I took you upstairs to our play room and taught you the proper way to address your Dom when you experience anger and frustration. It was a lesson we practiced over and over that evening until you learned your place as my Sub. It was a breakthrough night for both of us, John. You submitted fully to me, and I took your obedience into myself and promised never to let you down. I believe that I may have done so last night. I pressured you into a dangerous situation and almost got you killed. However, I want to renew that promise to, even with whatever is happening with your mind now. I will be better for you."

John shivered at Sherlock's words. His rich voice moved straight to his cock, and he felt his dick twitch in response. His breath picked up, and he allowed himself to imagine Sherlock restraining him, hurting him, kissing him and forcing him to bend to his will. It caused a shift in him for a second. He could almost believe it existed exactly as Sherlock described.

Sherlock picked up on his arousal and ran his hand through John's hair. He grasped a handful and pulled it, stretching John's head back and exposing his neck. He placed his lips just under John's Adams apple and kissed him softly. John let out a little moan of surprise.

"You're mine," Sherlock growled low and possessive. "If you've forgotten, I will teach you otherwise."

He removed his hand from John's hair and his head dropped back into place. Eyes wide, John swallowed his shock and glared into Sherlock's eyes.

"I am not, yours, Sherlock. I don't belong to anyone," he said hearing the word, "YET!" echoing in his mind. Not yours yet. And not in the manner Sherlock spoke of. How could the detective expect him to submit to his control?

It seemed this relationship went well beyond the bedroom and into John's work with Sherlock. Sure he got ordered around all the time out in the field, but he could always decide for himself if he wanted to follow. Couldn't he? Truth be told, he usually did follow the commands of one of the most dominant human beings he'd ever met. So, Sherlock's claim wasn't as improbable as it seemed. The accident at the pub may have knocked the memories Sherlock spoke of out of his mind. Either that or this was one of the most epic cases of gas lighting he'd ever encountered.

He could almost believe in the picture Sherlock painted except for the fact that he empathetically remembered two years of memories where he had not been in a sexual relationship with the detective. He remembered every case, hell he'd written it down in his blog. His blog!

"Where's my laptop?" John asked suddenly sure he'd find the answers to his questions there. He stepped around Sherlock's body and headed into the sitting room. Sherlock allowed him to go easily enough but floated after him like a specter.

He found it and sat in his chair to boot it up. The lid looked odd, and there was a sticker planted on the front he'd never seen before of a monkey's grinning face. He had no idea what the thing represented or why it had been placed there, but he typed in his password. He got an error message and sighed. "What did you change it to, Sherlock?" John asked leaning his head on the back of the chair in exasperation.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I've never changed your password, John. I don't know why you keep insisting I'm doing things to you behind your back. Our relationship doesn't work that way."

"Oh really," John nearly shouted in his frustration. "Then why doesn't it work?"

"You must have changed it recently. I can deduce it easily, however. It's the name of the latest Bond villain with the numbers 221b after it all in caps. You're very predictable."

"You think I'd use the latest James Bond villain as a password?" John asked incredulously. "I always use anatomical names."

"It's Jack Bond, and I believe the villain's name is Dr. Dillinger if I remember anything from the insipid movie you made me watch two weeks ago."

John shook his head and typed in DRDILLINGER221B and the program opened up. He did not remember watching any Bond movies and certainly not any with that villain. But, the password worked.

He opened up a tab and typed in James Bond movies and got no hits. The closest thing he could find was a solicitor in Surrey with the same name. He then typed in Jack Bond movies and found millions of hits. The first one in the queue provided a link to a movie starring someone he'd never heard of as Jack Bond and Dr. Dillinger as one of the best Bond villains to hit the screen in a decade.

John sighed and called up his blog. Either someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to fool him, possibly Mycroft, or he was fucked. The color scheme had been changed, and there were different photos as he scrolled through the entries, but it was his blog. The famous "hat" photo had been replaced with one showing Sherlock wearing jaunty fedora along with the pea-green trench coat. It seemed very popular.

The dates on the entries matched his memory, and the cases were mostly the same, but the names and details were not right. He checked the last updated dates and discovered that no one had been on tampering with his entries. Again, he wouldn't put it past Sherlock's brother to have altered his blog, but why?

He scrolled back up to the first entries and read them. What he saw there only confused him more. Along with the usual case write-ups, John had announced to the world that he and Sherlock were not only crime fighting partners, but partners in private as well. There was no mention of the Sub/Dom elements, but the entries made no secret that Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson shared in a domestic relationship.


	7. Chapter 7

**Regular Universe: Mirror John.**

"We'll figure this out," Sherlock said reassuringly.

John felt the knot he'd been holding in since he'd woken up that morning loosen a little. The shock of seeing their playroom put back the way it had been when he'd first moved in had sent him reeling. He'd been so tired the night before that he did not realize that Sherlock had directed him up the stairs to this bed before he'd zonked out from exhaustion. It had been dark, and he'd hadn't seen much of the room before he'd crawled into bed.

"Sherlock, please explain why you've changed the playroom," John said again.

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully and stood up. "Come with me."

John followed him into their bedroom and was in for another surprise. Sherlock's room held no traces of a shared existence. This was a single man's room, not a couple's. Nothing of John remained, and the sight of it sent the air whooshing out of him again. His presence had been eliminated as effectively as a surgeon cutting a tumor out of a lung.

Sherlock stood by his bed and opened his drawers one by one. Only his clothes inhabited them. "This has always been my room. Yours is upstairs," he said carefully. "We do work on cases together, and your help is invaluable, but we've never shared…anything more than what typical flat mates share, John."

John reached out an arm to steady himself and then stood up straight. "I see," he said and turned back into the sitting room. He couldn't stand another second in that sterile bedroom. Sherlock followed behind him, hovering concernedly. He sat back in his chair and put his head in his hands.

"John, I…" Sherlock began.

But, John interrupted him, "I don't know what is going on. But, I intend to find out," John said gritting his jaw tightly. "Let me just review. London is fine, no war zones and no bombed out areas."

"Correct."

"New Scotland Yard has control over the city's criminals?"

"I wouldn't call them "in control" but they do try," Sherlock said.

"You and I are not in any kind of romantic relationship."

Here Sherlock looked up, and a blush ran up his cheeks. He dropped his eyes quickly and said, "No."

"You are not my Dom and I'm not…" here John broke down a moment. "Your Sub."

"John, I wouldn't know how to do that. I don't even have, I mean I've had very little experience with…" Sherlock stuttered and stumbled so much that John began to feel a sick tension build in his stomach. Something was dreadfully wrong here. So wrong, in fact, he began to suspect his sanity for the first time. He'd never seen the detective in such a state of uncertainty before.

Sherlock had always been the one to take the lead, Sherlock had seduced him at the beginning of their relationship, and Sherlock had dominated him so thoroughly that John could hardly remember what his life had been like before. This was not the person he knew. This man looked and sounded like the love of this life, but had none of the fiercely personal determination and surety. This man had Sherlock's arrogance, and his confidence but none of the simmering sexuality John had grown to need in his life. What had happened to his Dom?

"I don't want to take advantage of you in your current state," Sherlock said kneeling down next to him. "I don't want to reject you, at all, but I'm not…we're not, together. That kiss just now. That was the first time I've kissed by anyone since Uni."

John looked up at him sharply. While Sherlock hadn't had a plethora of lovers before John, he'd certainly had sexual experience. And while he'd been with lots of women, he knew Sherlock's brand of sexual intensity far outshone his own experiences. He'd learned more than he'd ever dreamed from his energetic and experienced Dom

John had felt the allure of it on the very first night they'd been together. On the first day he'd met the detective, he went with him to a crime scene and garnered Sherlock's respect and admiration. They'd ended up chasing a suspect through the streets of London where John had tackled him in the end. Together they interrogated him, none too gently, and pulled the necessary information from him needed to solve the case. He'd praised Sherlock's abilities and felt that perfect bright gaze turned on him in surprise.

That night, they'd returned to Baker Street and climbed the stairs full of adrenaline, and just knew their attraction wasn't platonic. They ended up shagging, the only word John would have used for it, in Sherlock's bedroom all night. The next morning Sherlock insisted John wouldn't need the second bedroom and that he should move directly in with him. It should have sent warning bells ringing, the demands, the possessiveness, but John had never felt such a pull for another human being in his entire life. Only twenty-four hours after meeting Sherlock, he knew he wanted as much of the crazy, addictive, detective as he could get, for as long as he could get.

"I don't understand any of this," John said and put up one hand to Sherlock's cheek. "I think something may have happened during that shock. Something unusual. Everything's changed. Maybe I've been imagining things or maybe I'm imagining them now, but I do remember us, together. Nothing will ever make me forget that." John drew in a deep breath and sat back in the chair.

"We will get through this, I promise," Sherlock said laying a hand on John's shoulder. "You are not moving anywhere else, and we will figure this out."

"So I sleep upstairs, and you sleep downstairs? We're just flat mates and,"

"Good friends, John. The best. We solve crimes; you work at a clinic and we…"

"I work at a clinic?" John interrupted. "Where?"

"You do locum work for a clinic not far from here. You work for a doctor named Sarah Sawyer," Sherlock said looking down and smiling. "I tell you all the time that you should give up the clinic and work with me full time, but you insist you need to pay bills. Tedious."

John laughed at that. "I would insist on that. I guess New World doesn't pay us to work for them?"

Sherlock's brows crinkled in confusion. "I don't know what New World is but New Scotland Yard sometimes pays us for our work. Especially if it leads to a conviction."

"Do you know my schedule? I mean should I be there now?" John asked suddenly worried. If he were going to try to make it in this reality, he'd better get with the program.

"No, you're off until tomorrow afternoon. That gives us time to work on this from this end. Maybe we need to consult professional help?" Sherlock asked tentatively.

"I don't want to be labeled crazy. That might not be the best thing for someone in my profession," John said rubbing his eyes in frustration. "Maybe we could just take things day by day. I feel pretty stable now. I feel like the world's shifted but I'm still exactly who I should be."

John looked into Sherlock's eyes needing to see some sign he wasn't mad and that his Dom (no his friend now) understood, and was still willing to help him. He saw only earnest concern in Sherlock's eyes. Whoever his Dom had turned into, he could still see an intense connection between them. He nodded and said, "I know I seem wildly wrong to you, but I think we may need to look beyond the realm of what is known and consider something unknown."

The detective crinkled his brow, "Something unknown? I don't follow you."

"That maybe… I'm not where I'm supposed to be. That this isn't my London and you're not my Sherlock," John ventured. "I don't know how else to explain it. Nothing here is right. Oh, most of it is similar but too much of it has been altered."

"You recall people, and places but events are different. Your relationships with people are different," Sherlock mused.

"Have you heard of parallel universes?" John asked. "I read a story once as a kid that suggested there are numerous parallel universes that exist side by side with ours. When decisions are made, the universe continues down both paths and creates an alternative version of each Earth until there are millions of …"

"An impossible idea, John," Sherlock said cutting him off. "There are an infinite number of choices given to people every day since the beginning of human thought. How could existence encompass such a vast number of alternative realities? The sheer volume is astronomical."

"Well, maybe a new universe isn't created for each little decision a person makes. Perhaps it takes something big to create an alternate pathway. Perhaps there are only hundreds or thousands of alternate worlds. For instance, this London isn't a bombed out mess under martial law. It looks like what might have happened if the terrorist bombings had been stopped and headed off before they got started. This London never suffered years of internal warfare. My London did, however, and that one great event changed hundreds of thousands of other decisions. Perhaps it created a different version of you so that when we met, you had developed a Dominant sexual personality that knew to tap into my submissive one."

"I never knew you had submissive tendencies," Sherlock said. "I always rather liked your Captain Watson confidence. To be honest, I find you at your most alluring when you order me around when I need it, and take charge at crime scenes."

Sherlock's blush was back, and he looked up a John in a way he'd never in his life expected his Dom to look. He was flirting. He was sweet and unsure, and it sent a jolt right into his chest that caused his heart to speed up in a way it hadn't in a long time. Sherlock liked it when he took charge? Sure there were times when he'd stood up to Sherlock and fought for equality in their relationship, but since he'd given himself over to willing submission, he'd let Sherlock take the lead, and he'd followed. It sometimes chaffed him, caused him no end of frustration, and insulted his inner sense of self-worth, but he combated those feelings with ramping up his personal bad ass persona and trying to make himself worthy of being the World's Only Consulting Detective's partner. He knew Sherlock liked him strong, capable and even independent at times, so he strove for perfection in his work and personal self.

"I'll have to keep that in mind then," he said lowering his voice a touch. He had no idea if his theories about alternative realities had any merit, but something about this Sherlock gave him pause. He'd been reading so many conflicting signals in the past few hours he barely knew what to think. But what if this Sherlock Holmes still felt attraction for him but had never expressed it? Knowing his own repressed tendencies, he might never have gone for a sexual relationship if Sherlock hadn't initiated. Might they just be friends in this world? Maybe friends who wanted more but because of circumstances hadn't allowed themselves to move forward? He had to find out. If he were stuck in this version of London, he would never make it in a "friendship" role with Sherlock. He'd never be satisfied with that. But, what in heaven's name could he do to make this version of his platonic flat mate realize they were meant to be together?

Well, he'd just have to work on that.


	8. Chapter 8

**Regular Universe: Mirror John**

Sherlock had gone into the kitchen to make tea, so John went into the loo to collect himself and wash his face. He caught his reflection in the mirror and once again marveled at his altered appearance. His mid-section certainly had a bit more pudge than he remembered. He pressed around his middle and felt no pain, not swollen but fat then. The mirror showed only about a day's growth of beard on his face. He lifted his neck up and down noticing the small double chin that had formed and patted at it dismay. Maybe he'd put on weight and not remembered? Well, he'd make time for a run later today.

The beard was an easy fix. He'd just let it grow back. He sighed and washed his face. None of the products on the counter looked familiar. In fact, they'd stopped making his favorite brand of shampoo years ago after the meltdown, but now he saw a bottle perched on the side of the tub. He picked it up and smelled the familiar scent he'd missed for so long.

"Incredible," he said to his reflection. "I really am not where I should be." Saying it out loud lent the idea credibility and last night's hallucination of moving out of his body and into another came back with clarity. This wasn't his body, this wasn't his world, and Sherlock wasn't his Dom. Something had changed, fundamentally. He'd have to gather more information for his theory, but nothing else made sense. He'd simply have to convince Sherlock he was right and not insane.

While he contemplated his circumstances, his mobile rang. The number said, "Clinic" and he answered tentatively. "Hello?"

"John, this is Sarah. Can you come in today? We need you. Big accident at a warehouse and we've got a flood of burn and smoke inhalation victims," the woman on the other end of the line said. She sounded desperate, and John's first impulse was to run right over there to help.

"Yes, I can come in," John said. Maybe this might be a good way to ease into working at the clinic. The place would be chaotic, and his co-workers might not notice any unusual behavior. "I'll be there as soon as possible."

"Oh, thank God," she said and rang off.

John grinned. He liked the idea of being so necessary to someone else besides Sherlock. His Dom usually railroaded him into only being available to service his every need, no matter how trivial. It amazed him that this Sherlock allowed him to work at another job, and have his own identity. "Right," he said aloud to the mirror, "Time to help some people."

He returned to the sitting room, "Sherlock. I've been called into the clinic. There's been an emergency and…" John began.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked. "Do you even know which clinic it is?"

John pushed redial on his phone. "Grower Street Clinic," a voice answered.

"Grower Street, apparently," John said with a smug smile on his face. He quickly called up the address for the clinic on the laptop and wrote it down on a scrap of paper. "I'd like to go in and see what I can do to help. It wouldn't be a bad idea for me to become acquainted with this reality and that means trying to do my job."

"John, I don't think it's a good idea. We still need to get you seen," Sherlock said stepping up and putting his hands on John's shoulders.

"I feel fine!" John shouted a little louder than he intended. He flinched instinctively at his insolence expecting the Dom in Sherlock to forbid and punish, but Sherlock merely stepped away from him. "I'll be back later and we can talk more about things after I return," John said gathering his coat and wallet.

He left the flat and hurried down the steps. Going to a destination that didn't involve a case, felt strangely good to him just then. This was the first time in years that John had arranged to do something that involved just himself. His clinic needed him to use the skills he'd trained years for, finally. He clenched his fist tightly and used his other hand to hail a cab. On the way, he mentally reviewed the techniques he remembered for treating burns and smoke inhalation. He'd had more than enough experience in the past few years after so many had succumbed to the bombings in the city.

He arrived at the clinic amid chaos. He'd barely stepped through the doors when an attractive, red-haired doctor pounced on him. "John," she said tugging him by the sleeve. "We've got over 20 patients sent to us from a huge warehouse fire. We've got them on cots everywhere. See Jenny for the triage list. We've just received the emergency supplies from Bart's hospital a few minutes ago."

John gaped at the scene before him. Numerous white-coated figures moved between the victims lying on cots. Doctors efficiently and patiently treated people who had been burned in the fire. He marveled at the trolley filled with pristine, white bandages, gauze, ointments and small bottles of pain reliever. This facility had everything it needed to treat this horrible disaster. He hadn't seen such a well-stocked medical facility in years. This was amazing.

"Come on, John!" she urged him again. "Get moving."

He got moving. He spent the next ten hours treating patients and helping the other doctors make people as comfortable as he could. Some of the burns were horrific while others could be treated and sent home to heal. While he worked, another ten more patients came in from the warehouse fire. Somehow, they still had to work in the people who had come to the clinic for other emergencies. The day was hectic, and John barely had two minutes to drink a cup of tea, but he couldn't have been happier doing this work. As he treated each person, he felt his confidence in himself as a medical professional rise to the challenge. Sarah came by twice and marveled at how efficiently he worked.

She finally sent him home late in the evening. He promised to be back the next afternoon for his regular shift. He couldn't wait.

Sherlock sprang out from a shadow just as he emerged from the clinic door. "How'd it go?" he asked anxiously.

"Great. Fine. I remembered it all," John said with a grin. He knew he should feel much more exhausted, but the adrenaline in his system still hadn't run out. "I had a few tricks for triaging they didn't know about and apparently our lot "on the other side" have perfected a great new treatment for 3rd-degree burns that causes less pain than the one they were using."

Sherlock paused and looked at him, eyes glittering in intensity. "I've asked Mycroft to speak to you. He's going to be coming by in the morning. I'm not sure I can handle this version of you on my own, John."

John's stomach sank. "You think I'm mad, don't you?"

"I do not think you are mad, John," Sherlock said keeping his laser-focused eyes pinned on him. "I think you are experiencing something I have no idea how to handle. I'm here for you always, and I want to help you…us figure this out."

"But Mycroft?" John asked and stepped up to the curb to hail a cab. "What can he do?"

"He's got resources we don't have in this matter. Perhaps he may have encountered something like this before."

"All right, Sherlock. If you think your brother can help," John said resignedly. "Then, I'll speak to him."

"Tell him what you told me, John. And, everything else you haven't."


	9. Chapter 9

**Mirror Universe: Regular John**

John took it all in. He'd been working with Sherlock long enough to understand that evidence, empirical evidence, could not be ignored. He had to look at everything presented to him and draw logical conclusions. His world had changed. He had not. Too many fundamental differences slapped him in the face for him not to see how changed this world was. An idea had occurred to him when he saw his blog. He remembered reading a story by Ray Bradbury called _A Sound of Thunder_. It explained the idea of a "butterfly effect" where a man who'd gone back in time and stepped on a prehistoric butterfly managed to drastically change the future. He'd rewritten the course of history and caused a chain reaction of different choices that lead to a different reality for men who'd gone back in time and reappeared into a completely changed world. His current situation reminded him of that.

He swung open the door and stepped back into the sitting room. "Sherlock," he shouted. "Sherlock!"

"What?" Sherlock said appearing in the hallway with a worried look on his face.

"Have you ever heard of parallel universes?" he asked.

He'd spent almost an hour explaining his idea that he might be in another universe to the detective. Sherlock listened stoically, taking it in. When he finished, Sherlock insisted John see a doctor that Mycroft had recommended who specialized in traumatic brain injuries. He assured John the man would be discreet. John agreed if only to ascertain for himself that this all might not be something pathological.

He had an appointment for later that day. Once he'd decided something, this Sherlock could not and would not be denied. So John busied himself as best he could to wait for it. Finally, he allowed himself to be ushered into the specialist's office. After extensive tests, scans and questions, they left. Results would follow in the next few days, but the doctor assured him that there was nothing imminently problematic with John's brain. They would have to await the results as calmly as they could. Meanwhile, the doctor suggested John might want to seek therapy to help determine if there might be some psychological issues.

Sherlock took him back to Baker St, and they propped themselves in their prospective chairs with even more questions than they had earlier. John knew in his heart that he had not changed, his world had.

"John," Sherlock said breaking the heavy silence that had fallen between them since they'd returned. "Would you come and sit with me on the couch?"

"Why?" John asked looking at Sherlock warily. Ever since they'd returned from the doctor's office, John had half-feared, half-desired a repeat of what had happened in the kitchen earlier.

"Come here, John," Sherlock said moving to the couch and gently patting the seat next to him. "I'm not going to bite you…much," Sherlock said keeping a predatory smile at bay.

"Do I usually just do as you say?" John asked trying to keep a fluttering warmth from building in his chest at the thought of sitting next to Sherlock when his pitched his voice so low like that.

"Yes," Sherlock said leveling a now simmering stare at John. He lounged artfully on the couch with long arms spread along the back in an inviting gesture. "I perceive you need comforting, and I'd like to give you some."

John cleared his throat and stared at the detective. His aura dripped with sex. Somehow he didn't think Sherlock simply meant a hug. "Come now, John," Sherlock said putting a bit of understated force in his tone. "We both know it will do you good to be soothed a bit. I promise I will be gentle tonight."

"That's generous of you," John replied hoping to stall a bit longer. John wasn't sure he could do what Sherlock obviously wanted. He found himself beginning to panic and found it ironic that all the crazy shit that had befallen him since waking up from his jolt, this had the power to send him into a tailspin. "But, if we're going to be…" here John halted. Intimate? He couldn't think of a better word for the now purely lustful look in Sherlock's eye. "More than flat mates, then I'd like to take things slower. Maybe start from the beginning."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. John could see he did not like being told no. But, to his credit, Sherlock drew himself up from his sultry pose and straightened his spine. "From the beginning?" he asked looking John over using one of his deductive stares.

John swallowed nervously. What would Sherlock see if he looked closely? True enough, the proposed intimacy sounded tempting, but John couldn't go from zero to sixty in one night. If it were true that this universe had them in an established sexual relationship, then he'd missed out on a first kiss, the blissful honeymoon period, and the trust two people built up over years of intimacy. He knew it might not be possible to recapture all of that with this Sherlock, but maybe he might be entitled to a small amount of wooing. He straightened up also and tilted his jaw forward in an attitude of resistance.

"Hmm," Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, and John braced himself. "Despite your reluctance, you are not averse to being physical with me. You want me; you clearly liked it when I kissed you earlier, and your physical responses are consistent with sexual desire, but…"

John waited. Sherlock had stopped talking and continued to stare at him until he felt minutes melting into nearly a quarter of an hour. Yet, he stayed still and endured the scrutiny. The sultry seducer had suddenly been replaced with the world's best consulting detective, and John knew there wasn't much he could do when Sherlock went into thinking mode.

"You have never been with a man," Sherlock finally said blinking in surprise. "You want me, but you've never wanted any other men. This doesn't make sense, but when I deduce you, I can see it simply and plainly. It's written all over you. You desire me, but you don't know how to proceed with that desire. You do have only mild, submissive tendencies hence your willingness to be my partner on cases, but you are not a submissive."

"Brilliant as usual," John said breathing out a gush of relief. Once again, Sherlock's brutal honesty left him speechless. But, it looked as if Sherlock might understand his predicament.

Sherlock stood and held out a hand to John. "Let's go upstairs and clear out your room," Sherlock said. "We can move the gear to my room and change the sheets to something you'd prefer."

"Sherlock," John said. "We don't have to do that right now."

"But, you'd be more comfortable back in your old room, as it was," Sherlock said eyes glued to a spot somewhere between John's feet.

John had to admit the dungeon feel of his bedroom did unnerve him, but he could see Sherlock's distress at having to dismantle it. Even though he hadn't been in this relationship Sherlock seemed to believe they had, it felt too much like breaking up. John's heart rebelled at the idea in a way he hadn't expected.

"No, don't touch it. It's fine for now. Maybe we could just share your bed. My stuff's already in your room anyway, and we could just sleep together for now. I could get used to that first, maybe?" John said.

Sherlock's eyes snapped up, and a bright look of hope flashed through them before he steeled his face back into a neutral mask. But, John had seen the look, and it made him smile for the first time since he'd arrived in this upside down world.


	10. Chapter 10

**Mirror Universe: Regular John**

As John undressed for bed, he couldn't help the excited buzz running through his system. Here he was, preparing to spend the night sleeping next to Sherlock Holmes. He'd had one particular fantasy a few months back after a case that had him particularly unnerved. They'd both come back cold after being sprayed with water while chasing a fleeing suspect through London. The winter weather had left them with near hyperthermia by the time they'd caught him and made their way back to the flat. Sherlock's lips were tinged with blue and John made him strip and get into a lukewarm shower to slowly warm up. John had followed right after but made sure to bundle Sherlock up in his comforter on his bed. John had wanted very much to crawl right under the covers and snuggle up for body warmth. The urge had been so strong he'd almost done it despite the fact that it would have been a "bit not good" for him to reveal his desires at that moment. He'd had no idea if Sherlock would have startled and kicked him out of the bed, so he'd tamped down his urge and went into the shower alone instead.

When he'd finally warmed up, he trudged upstairs to his room to finish getting warm in his lonely bed.

Now, here he was. Not only was he invited by the detective himself, but there was an underlying expectation that they'd been sleeping together for years. John pulled back the covers and slid between Sherlock's sheets. They were not as decadent as he'd suspected they might be. The thread count was high enough by most standards but very warm and comfortable. He sighed and stretched out his legs. The mattress was certainly of higher quality than his own. He might enjoy sleeping down here tonight.

Sherlock joined him a few minutes later dressed in comfortable sweats and a t-shirt. John offered him a brief smile as he felt the bed dip from Sherlock's weight. Sherlock lay on his side looking at him in a curious way before placing his hand on John's cheek. The gesture, sweetly romantic, made his heart beat faster and he laced his hand on top.

"Thank you for this," he said. "I know you must be confused, but I need time to adjust to his life. I've always wanted this with you. You must have known at some level that I did."

"Yes. I knew from the first moment we met," Sherlock said.

John closed his eyes at that and wondered if his Sherlock had known too. So much time wasted between them. But in this reality, they'd become lovers right away, maybe even too soon. What must the John in this world have given up for the mad genius's affections? What would he have to give up now, he wondered.

"Good night, Sherlock," John whispered.

"Good night, my John," Sherlock whispered back.

The next morning John awoke to an empty bed and a feeling of disappointment. He heard Sherlock in the shower getting ready for the day and decided to get up as well. He felt rested and ready to tackle more of the mysteries of his new world. He learned from Sherlock that he did not work at a clinic and spent his days entirely at the disposal of the consulting detective. It felt both freeing and upsetting not to have a job to go to.

As soon as Sherlock emerged from this shower sporting only a loose towel around his slender hips, John took his turn in the shower. The memory of a slightly damp Sherlock had him thinking about taking himself in hand for a wank, but he decided against it. The detective would know, and he didn't need the complication of his attraction so blatantly obvious just now. With his new resolve to take this slow with Sherlock firmly in place, he reached out to turn off the water when a shadow fell over him.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock said and stepped up behind him.

"Didn't you just shower?" John asked hearing his voice rise at least two octaves.

"Yes, but I'd like another," Sherlock rumbled into his left ear.

When had he gotten so close? John thought. "Sherlock," John began "I-I,"

"You said we should take things back to the beginning, John. I'm going to seduce you properly this time," he said, reaching around John's waist and running long-fingered hands up and down his sides. John could feel Sherlock's taunt chest, abdomen, and hardened cock pressed up against his back and couldn't for the life of him remember why this shouldn't be happening.

Sherlock pressed small, fluttering kisses along the back of his neck as his hands slid around to John's stomach. John's brain spun as the kisses grew more ardent and Sherlock took his left earlobe into his mouth pulling and sucking. He let out a soft moan at the sensation that shot straight to his cock. Sherlock's hands spread out suddenly and pushed John firmly into Sherlock's front. He could feel Sherlock rutting gently into his lower back and moaned again at the idea that he could get the detective so eager for him.

One of the hands disappeared for a moment and came back encased in bath gel. Before he could think to disagree, Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around his cock and began to stroke it languidly. The feeling of pleasure was indescribably hot. John instantly felt his body building toward orgasm. He'd already been keen to have a wank and Sherlock's hand had him breathing heavy in less than a minute.

John couldn't think, only feel. He'd had this fantasy a hundred times, and now here he was writing under Sherlock's touch for real. He didn't want it to stop. Whatever Sherlock wanted, he could have. Two more strokes and John came all over the shower's wall in front of him. He put up one hand to steady himself as he came down from one of the hardest orgasms in had in years and turned around to face his flat mate.

Something turned then, and John reached out to pull his best friend into a kiss. He kissed Sherlock hard and insistent holding nothing back. He poured years of unresolved lust, love, admiration and desire into it. When he pulled back, he could see surprise in Sherlock's eyes.

"You haven't kissed me like that in a long time," he said.

"I've never kissed you like that. That was our first kiss. I've been waiting for years to give you that."

"I think I now believe you. You are John, and I will take you any possible way I can have you. You are mine in any version of any world."

John felt a sob rise in him at that, but before he could let it loose, Sherlock kissed him again and kept kissing him until the water ran cold.


	11. Chapter 11

**Mirror Universe: Regular John**

They finally parted, got out and dried off. John's knees felt weak, and he wondered if he would be able to stand up and dress. Sherlock noticed and handed him a towel giving him a dark chuckle.

"After you've dressed and eaten, we've got some business to attend to," Sherlock said cryptically.

God, John thought, what now? He chose some clothes from their shared wardrobe and put them on. He ran his hand over the unfamiliar shirts that were obviously his and grinned despite the unease of being in unfamiliar territory. He sat on the edge of (their) bed and put on socks and shoes dreamily revisiting the feeling of Sherlock's hand on his cock bringing him to completion. He shuddered and called up the warm curl of lust rising at the thought of Sherlock's finely sculpted hand caressing him.

The kissing had been amazing, but when John's hand strayed down to touch Sherlock's erection, John's hand had been gently redirected. They'd kissed and kissed, and John's memory lingered on lips pressed against his insistent and tender. But as soon as it began, it was over. John could have kissed the detective forever under the warm spray of water, but too soon Sherlock reached for the knob leaving him shivering in the shower.

John did know where that left them or what Sherlock supposed their relationship to be now, but he found he wanted more between them. He wanted to know what it would feel like to touch and stroke Sherlock's warm skin as they lie in bed together. He'd never thought the detective would know how to seduce him so thoroughly or that he'd ever be interested in exploring a physical relationship with anyone.

But, this new intense version of Sherlock felt different. Was he a completely different human being or was he just a different version? If he believed he wasn't where he was supposed to be, and that he now inhabited another John Watson's life, then how could he do this? Should he allow himself to have what he'd always dreamed of having? He didn't even know how long he might stay in this world. Perhaps a swift punch in the jaw might restore him back to his version of the other universe, or he might be here forever.

He met Sherlock at the front door. "Bring your gun," Sherlock reminded him.

He retrieved it and tucked his Browning into the waistband of his jeans while following the detective out onto the curb. Baker Street still held onto a respectable façade showing little wear from the recent wars. Cars sped along at a reasonable pace and pedestrians walked about in relative safety.

Sherlock walked a few steps, and John saw the black sedan pull up alongside. Instead of rolling his eyes as he usually did when Mycroft's cars pulled up next to him, he immediately opened up the door and motioned John to proceed him into the backseat. They were alone in the car except for the driver who seemed to know their destination. The slid into traffic and proceeded to the city center.

John still couldn't help staring at certain familiar buildings that had been either reduced to rubble or had been barricaded with enough security fencing and barbed wire to put off a military squad. Most of London's landmarks had remained unharmed. They passed by Parliament, and the London Eye and John couldn't help wondering how they'd managed to stay standing when so many other historical buildings had been shattered.

"It's like being in the Twilight Zone, Sherlock," John said as they turned into an underground car park under a nondescript office building.

"Never heard of it," Sherlock said opening his door and jumping out in his most impatient fashion.

"We watched a marathon once. It's an old Telly show where all the stories had weird twist endings and no one ever ended up where they thought they'd be," John explained.

Sherlock shrugged. John sighed. "Where are we?" he asked.

"Mycroft has arranged for us to speak to a scientist here. I told him about your theory, and he suggested we speak to Dr. McGreevy. He's an expert in a number of experimental, scientific fields," Sherlock explained. "We're very lucky to have access to him. He's usually busy, and only people with the highest security clearance may speak to him."

"Why are they letting us at him then?" John asked.

Sherlock smirked. "Mycroft loves having me in his debt. And, I will owe him after this."

John felt a stab of guilt at that. Sherlock was pulling out all the stops to help him with this.

"Oh, don't worry, John," Sherlock said with a devastating smile while reading the guilt on his face. "You'll be helping me pay him back."

They took the elevator up to the top of the building, and John hoped this McGreevy could help him find some answers to his strange travels. Part of him hoped he wouldn't be able to help at all. The longer he stayed in this world, the deeper he seemed to be falling for this Sherlock Holmes.


	12. Chapter 12

**Regular Universe: Mirror John**

After a throw-together meal and a cup of tea, John began to feel the fatigue of the day creeping over him. He wanted a hot shower and bed in that order. Sherlock had watched him eat not saying anything. He'd gone up to "his" room and collected some pajama bottoms and a t-shirt and went into the bathroom. When he emerged from his shower, Sherlock hadn't moved from his place at the kitchen table.

"What?" John asked feeling a deliberate tension forming between them. "I'm knackered and want to go to bed." He still felt lost in his relationship with his former Dom.

"You usually sleep with me, correct?" Sherlock asked dropping his eyes to the kitchen floor.

John still couldn't get over how unsure this Sherlock seemed about their relationship. Sherlock always knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how much he could push John into giving him. It had been the hallmark of their romantic and business partnership for years now. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been given much of a choice or the chance to discover how he might do things differently. He always did what Sherlock wanted.

"Yes," he answered.

"Would it make you more comfortable if you continued to do so?" Sherlock said still not making eye contact.

Sherlock was offering him a choice. He could have the warmth and support he desperately craved from his pseudo-Dom, or he could go upstairs and take the space he needed to sort out how he wanted to proceed on his own. It was a novel feeling. The two of them stood at a crossroad, and the future rested on his, John Watson's, shoulders for a change.

John knew one thing for certain, the Sherlock sitting before him needed his guidance now. This man, usually so sure of everything, had been cut adrift and John might be the only one who could bring him back to shore. He smiled and moved over to the sitting detective. He wrapped his arms around his flat mate and hugged him close.

Sherlock stiffened up at first then melted into the embrace bringing his arms around John's back to hold him tight. He wanted to tilt Sherlock's chin up and kiss all the uncertainty away, but in this world, they didn't do that. Did they?

John decided. "I'd really like that, but only if you're okay with it. I think it would help me sleep to be in your bed."

Sherlock mumbled something into John's shoulder.

"Humm?" John asked.

"I'd like that too," Sherlock said moving his face away and looking up into John's eyes.

So, John did kiss him. He kept the kisses gentle and soft. If these were indeed first kisses, he wanted them to be memorable and sweet. Sherlock kissed back unsure at first then gaining confidence. His hands pressed John to him firmly, and he seemed more interested in just keeping John close to him than deepening the kiss.

John broke away, and Sherlock stood up from the chair. But, a second later they clutched each other again. John pressed his face into Sherlock's neck breathing him in. His scent, while slightly different, was still inherently Sherlock. He could feel the detective trembling, and that made him smile again.

"I've wanted this for years," Sherlock said just over his ear, his voice deepening into a register that had always done extraordinary things to John. "I never knew how to begin it. I never knew you'd want it too."

Of course, he wanted it. He could no longer live without Sherlock in his life. He'd take the mad genius any way he could have him. That's why he'd done everything he could to earn his place with Sherlock Holmes in his own world. No matter what Sherlock demanded or would demand in the future, he could never deny him. He didn't have the courage to live without him.

"I'll always want you," John replied and slipped his hand into Sherlock's. "Let's go to bed before I fall asleep in your arms."

"Hmmm, I'd be all right with that," Sherlock said but allowed himself to be lead into the downstairs bedroom.

When he got there, Sherlock peeled down to his boxers and pulled back the covers invitingly. John saw a blush creep across his cheeks as he slid under the duvet, and it might have been one of the sexiest things John had ever seen in his life. Sherlock's soft smile nearly caused his heart to stop beating. A feeling unlike any he'd ever experienced before nearly crushed the breath out of his lungs. An unfamiliar urge threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to protect this man and make sure nothing bad ever happened to him. On the heels of that thought, he nearly laughed outright. Sherlock could certainly take care of himself and had shown a remarkable tenacity to hunt down the toughest criminals. He'd always remained one step ahead of everyone around him, including John. He couldn't help reproaching himself and hoped Sherlock couldn't deduce his thoughts. Old habits died hard.

They turned off the lamps and John pulled Sherlock close nuzzling his face into his shoulder and neck again. He could live right here forever in this peaceful space. Even the calm assurance of a confident Dom didn't bring him this much bliss. He wasn't sure he wanted to leave this world now even if he could find the means to return. So, he sighed deeply and fell asleep in his lover's arms.

 **Author's Note: Things are about to get shaken up! The plot thickens in the next few chapters. Hold on tight.**


End file.
